


Break

by riseuplogan (WonderAvian)



Category: Cyndago - Fandom, Video Blogging RPF, markiplier - Fandom
Genre: Blood, Gen, Gore, M/M, Relationship is left up to the reader's interpretation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:26:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23245489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WonderAvian/pseuds/riseuplogan
Summary: Dark is angry. Dark is angry, and everyone is too scared to ask why. Yet all the Host wants to do is to help despite any harm that may come to himself.In other words, the Host suffers for his kindness.
Relationships: The Host and Dr Iplier, The Host/Dr Iplier
Comments: 4
Kudos: 43





	Break

Dark is angry. Dark is angry, and everyone is too scared to ask why.

The Host is confused. He does not Know, for once, the cause of this event. His Sight is gone, has blurred and faded. He is left with nothing but his own hollow voice echoing back at him, echolocation painting the ridges of the space around him.

Dark punches the wall. Hits and tears at it. His heart, the dead heart that does not beat, burns with feeling.

With rage.

The Host is left in the dark, unknowing of what lies ahead. He still reaches out an ink-stained hand to help.

Dark pauses in his destruction. The ringing of his cracking shell, that had been oh so deafening before, dies down to the quivering of a mouse. He turns, desolation written all over his face.

The Host can feel the souls within Dark crying out in despair, in misery and sorrow. They want to be free.

The Host can free them, but only if Dark lets him.

Dark stares hopelessly at the Host. His gaze is no longer piercing. Only lost, and tired.

The Host can sympathise. He reaches out further, ignoring the whispered shouts of the others behind him. He only wants to help.

Dark blinks. He looks down at the Host’s outstretched hand. He raises his own and starts to reach for it.

The Host waits patiently.

Dark’s fingers brush against the Host’s, and the world draws a tentative breath.

The Host offers a forgiving smile.

Dark lunges forward and rips the Host’s throat in two.

Blood sprays through the air in a hauntingly magnificent arc. Somebody screams.

The Host slowly reaches for his throat. He gingerly taps out the hole there with light, shaking touches of his fingertips. They are drenched in blood within mere seconds.

The screaming hasn’t stopped. Dark hisses and recoils at the sound, blood-slick claws reflexively clamping down over his ears. There can be no room for remorse as he steps back into the void and disappears.

The Host has fallen to the ground. On his knees, he kneels, pressing his hand through the hole in the front of his throat through to the other side. He curls and uncurls his fingers in some kind of morbid fascination.

Someone is shaking him. He flinches, trying in vain to twist away as prying hands wrestle his own stained limbs away, tilting his head and exposing his open throat. He gurgles pitifully, narrations stuck rattling in the iron cage of his chest.

Someone is shouting at him. He cannot reply, not with words, can only paw weakly at their lab coat.

 _Help,_ he wants to say, _someone help the Host, please!_

Something is pressed against his throat, bound around his neck with increasing panic. If the Host had eyes, they would have widened as he begins to choke on his own blood.

The screaming from behind him may have risen in pitch and volume, but the Host can no longer hear it over the whistling of air as he tries to speak around the hole in his throat. He wants to touch it again.

He feels something tugging at the lapels of his trench coat. The person in front of him pulls him forward until he is leaning against their chest, their whole body acting as a fortress to support him.

Fingers glide comfortingly through his hair. Hands that have been nicked one too many times with a wayward scalpel gently caress the side of his face in mourning. The Host collapses into them with a soundless sigh of relief.

The side of someone’s face being pressed against the top of his head is the last thing he feels.

He doesn’t feel his hair dampen with the tears that follow.

Nor the “I love you,” finger spelled into his palm.

No-one ever hears the soft sound of bronze bells laughing in devoted song again, but they never will forget the heartbroken cries of the man who lived to listen to them.


End file.
